


Thus, My Despair

by dicksoutforproblematiccontent



Category: Final Fantasy IX
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Angst, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Injury, Kuja survives, Post-Canon, Sad, Self-Hatred, Survivor Guilt, attempted comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27118120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicksoutforproblematiccontent/pseuds/dicksoutforproblematiccontent
Summary: The Iifa Tree has collapsed. By some sort of miracle, Kuja survives.He doesn't think that's a good thing, though.
Relationships: Kuja & Zidane Tribal
Kudos: 18





	Thus, My Despair

**Author's Note:**

> Well this is just kinda sad. Hurt/comfort? Don't know her. Only hurt here, folks. I mean, it's not for a lack of trying on Zidane's part... Kuja's just not very receptive of it, unfortunately. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this post-game snippet either way. Takes place BEFORE Zidane meets Garnet again, however. If that wasn't obvious.
> 
> Obligatory "fiction is not the same as reality, what are you, three?" disclaimer. In other words: Don't like; don't read.
> 
> If you feel like I missed a tag, let me know!

Everything hurts.

That is all Kuja can think about when he first regains consciousness, a discomforted groan making its way out of his throat without his permission. From his head to his torso to even his tail, not a single cell in his body doesn’t feel like it isn’t actively trying to tear itself apart. When he tries to move, it only intensifies the pain, almost to a _nauseating_ degree.

Still, he knows better than to just allow himself to wallow in it; there aren’t many who could take him down, so if he’s in this much pain, he can’t be in a place where it’s conductive to remain inactive.

Slowly but surely, he forces his eyes open, blinking to rid himself of the uncharacteristic fuzziness in his vision, gradually focusing.

He comes face to face with what appears to be a straw roof.

He feels confused. What place would inflict this much damage on his person and leave him in such a flimsy cage? Surely they know that the moment he puts his mind to it, he can break out of here no problem, but he’s halted by a certain familiarity. He can’t quite place it, nagging at the back of his mind like a persistent rash, but…

“Oh, you’re awake!”

At the sound of the voice, he practically shoots upright in surprise, only to immediately collapse when every muscle in his body protests, pain wracking his very being. His vision blurs, his head throbs- but he can’t just lay there and trust that this person isn’t going to try to _take advantage_ of his weakness-!

It’s a startling realization to find that he is _completely_ and _utterly_ out of mana the moment he tries to summon a thundaga, but he’ll be _damned_ if he doesn’t at least try to fight back against his potential assailant. He tries to force his body to move, tries to make his legs and arms remove the cover on his body, to give him a chance to _kick_ and _claw_ if they try to get close, undignified as it may be. It hurts- his body isn’t cooperating- he’s covered from head to toe in bandages- he _can’t move properly-_

“Whoa there-! Calm down, you’re still really hurt!” The voice reaches his ears, and suddenly there’s someone holding him down, ignoring his weak, protesting groan. “Just stay still for a moment, would ya? I’ll get you a potion soon, promise, but you need to calm down first.”

A blonde mop of hair catches his attention. Vivid, lively blue eyes slowly come into focus, dancing in his vision as he struggles for a moment longer, before the familiarity of the figure settles in.

“Zi…dane?” he croaks, finally recognizing the owner of the voice _after_ he allows himself a moment to get his thoughts into order, rather than the blind, instinctual panic that he already kind of wants to kick himself for. He’s better than that, has been for ages. Even if Zidane is an enemy, he’s not the type to kick someone while they’re down.

There’s still the nagging thought however; _why?_ Why _worry?_ Would it not be easier to let him suffer his wounds alone? Isn’t that what enemies do?

He feels like he’s forgetting something, but his mind just feels so slow and foggy. It’s hard to concentrate, let alone figure out what exactly is going on.

“Phew.” Zidane’s hands leave him, and Kuja suppresses a pained hiss from the sudden release of pressure. “I’m glad you recognize me, at least. I wasn’t sure you were gonna _make_ it, you know.”

Zidane leaves his field of vision for a moment, and it takes a herculean effort to turn his head to follow, ignoring the flaring pain in his neck, his shoulders.

“Where…” He forces himself to utter, watching as Zidane opens a cabinet filled with bottles- _potions_ , he realizes- and takes one, popping the lid. “Why…?”

“Well, first of all, we’re in the Black Mage Village.” Zidane says, sitting down next to Kuja on the makeshift bed. “Also, drink up. You’ll feel better.” His brother continues as he presses the potion to Kuja’s lips, slowly tilting it upwards until the liquid spills into Kuja’s mouth. He has no choice but to either _swallow_ , or let the whole thing dribble down his face, and he’s not _quite_ gone enough to tolerate that, thank-you-very-much.

Not to mention, a potion should do him good, with how absolutely _wrecked_ he feels.

The effect is immediate, magical healing flooding his system. With every gulp, he feels a little of his wounds heal, some of his power returning to him. Still, it is just a potion, however; it doesn’t completely fix him, nor does it refill his mana, but at least his ears aren’t ringing anymore, and it doesn’t feel like his body could crumble at any second.

Once Zidane pulls the bottle away from his lips, its contents depleted, he finds the strength to slowly, gingerly sit up. He still aches all over, but at least it’s more _manageable_ now.

“You good?” Zidane asks as he puts the empty potion on the nightstand. “One potion isn’t gonna cut it, but it’ll have to do for now. They’re not exactly _keen_ on using this stuff on you here, you know? Had to convince ‘em to let you stay, too.”

Kuja listens to Zidane talk for a moment, gathering his now much clearer thoughts, memories prickling at the edge of his mind. They’re in the Black Mage Village, which means they’re on the outer continent- but where was he when he sustained this much damage? He wasn’t even on this continent to begin with, was he? Why is he with Zidane, of all people, in the village of puppets that he created, of all places?

He tries retracing his steps. What is the last thing he remembers…?

The memory comes to him slowly, but once it does, it’s like a floodgate has been opened.

Achieving Trance. Killing Garland. Learning about his own mortality. Destroying Terra. Trying to destroy _everything_. Getting stopped by Zidane and his troupe. Dying at the roots of the Iifa Tree.

Zidane keeping him company, even if he told him to run away.

“Hey… are you still in pain? You’ve got a _look_ on your face, Kuja.” Zidane’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “I can’t give you another potion for now, but maybe-“

“ _Why_ are you doing this?” Kuja interrupts Zidane. “Why are you taking care of _me?_ I certainly don’t deserve any kindness, least of all _yours_.”

Zidane gets a strange look on his face, then he sighs.

“I told you before, didn’t I? When we were at the roots of the Iifa Tree?” He says with a small grin. “I don’t need a reason to help people.”

“But why _me?_ After _everything_ I did?” Kuja wants to yell, even if his throat feels dry and hurts, like he’d spent an entire day gargling sand and needles. “I’m supposed to be _dead,_ Zidane, I should’ve _died_ down there, if not from my own wounds then by the force of the Iifa Tree collapsing on top of…”

Kuja cuts himself off when realization strikes.

“Why aren’t we both dead?” He breathes. “How… how did we avoid…”

“You don’t remember?” Zidane tilts his head in confusion. “It was you who got us outta there, you know.”

“I did?” Kuja frowns. “I don’t remember.”

“Yeah, well, you musta had _some_ mana left.” Zidane says. “You teleported us just far enough that I could get us both away from the destruction, though I guess you did pass out after that.”

“But even so, why continue helping me?” Kuja insists. He feels like he’s missing something, like Zidane is keeping things from him but he can’t tell _what_. “Simply getting you out doesn’t make up for my mistakes. I’ve done too much, Zidane, so why-“

“I told you, I don’t need a reason-“

“Can you _stop_ that already?!”

The outburst makes him cough, and he quickly regrets yelling at Zidane, both for his pained body reminding him he _really_ shouldn’t strain himself, as well as the sad, pitying look the other gives him, clearly wanting to reach out and help him but refraining for the moment. _Still_. Does his idiot brother _really_ not understand that nobody ever helps anybody else without wanting something in return? He was merely repaying a debt himself, even at the Iifa Tree, never mind how it would never be enough to make up for what he did.

There is no doubt that his brother is a far, far better person than Kuja will ever be, but even so-called good people will take every opportunity to satisfy their own selfish wants. Even Zidane can’t be an exception to this.

Such a nice, perfect world doesn’t exist. Even if it does, it _certainly_ isn’t this world.

His voice is brittle with pain when he speaks up next, but he’ll be damned if he’ll just lay here and listen to these _lies_.

“You say you don’t need a reason, but _surely_ you don’t think of me as _that_ naïve. After all I’ve done, you can’t just act like you don’t want anything from me. What is it that you want, Zidane? Money? Power?” Kuja pauses for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “… Revenge?”

“Wha- no way, Kuja!” Zidane actually looks shocked, like those thoughts didn’t even cross his mind. It would be amusing, if it weren’t so anxiety-inducing. It’s so confusing. He, of all people, isn’t above punishment, so why…?

Zidane shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that Kuja doesn’t quite catch, before he gingerly takes hold of Kuja’s shoulders. Kuja wants to squirm away, discomforted by the close proximity of his brother, but his wounds still ache, and even if he feels better than before, he feels weaker than _ever_.

Zidane’s eyes meet his, however, and Kuja finds himself unable to look away once his brother starts speaking.

“Listen, Kuja. I don’t want _anything_ from you. I saved you because I wanted to, and because it was the right thing to do. Did you screw up? Yeah, you screwed up _big time_ , and there’s no reasonable way you’ll ever be able to make it up to everyone you ever hurt, but that doesn’t mean you should just have to _die_. You’re a person with feelings like every single other creature on the planet. I couldn’t just leave you to die, and I can’t just leave you to suffer right now. We’re brothers, right? What kind of person would I be if I let my _brother_ of all people die?”

“… Even if you screwed up, you’re alive now, and you can still _try_ to make amends. I wanna help you make amends, Kuja. It’s a second chance at life, and I wanna help you put it to good use.” Zidane finishes, his fiery, passionate expression softening to something a little more gentle. “I think you deserve that much, at least.”

Kuja doesn’t know what to say to that.

He feels the way the silence stretches between them as he sits there, undignified and open-mouthed, practically held upright by Zidane at this point. Unfamiliar emotions are boiling inside his stomach, crawling up his chest and his throat as he absorbs the little speech his brother just gave him.

What is he supposed to say to that?

He’s not a good person. He’s _awful_ , rotten to the very core. Was from the very moment Garland created him. He’s only ever existed to sow destruction, to bring war. He’d delighted in manipulating the elephant-lady, he’d laughed while trying to kill his brother’s friends, even when he was doing what Kuja _wanted_ him to do. He hadn’t felt a _thing_ while tricking the Black Mages of the village, _this very village_ , into working for him with empty promises. He’d gotten so angry at the mere idea of being _mortal_ that he almost took everyone and everything with him.

A creature like him doesn’t deserve second chances.

Yet, when he looks into Zidane’s eyes, he can’t see a single lie; not one speck of dishonesty reflects from that sky-blue gaze.

Only faith and sincerity.

It doesn’t make sense.

It doesn’t make _any_ sense at all.

Except… it _does_ , when he takes one little fact into consideration.

There aren’t many things Kuja knows about his brother. He never invested much time in learning about him, but there is one thing he _does_ know.

Zidane is a performer. An _actor_.

A professional _liar_ , in other words.

Just. Like. Kuja.

A hollow laugh bubbles from Kuja’s chest upon the realization. Of course. Of course there was no way any of what his brother just said was true. Of course there are ulterior motives, _everyone_ has ulterior motives. Nobody is ever fully sincere with their intents. Nobody is that good.

Absolutely nobody.

Zidane’s face is one of concern, and oh, what a _wonderful_ recreation of one it is. Kuja would applaud him for his performance, but moving hurts, his head hurts, his chest hurts.

Everything hurts.

“Kuja- hey, are you alright? You’re freaking me out here a bit, y’know.”

God. Even Zidane’s _voice_ is the perfect replica of a concerned brother. How delightful. How _absolutely_ delightful.

Kuja wants to scream.

“Spare me your _lies_ , Zidane.” He croaks, another chuckle rippling through his body. Painful, how painful, but isn’t it exactly what he deserves? “I’ll admit, you had me convinced for a moment there, but I’ve seen through your little act now.”

“Wh- _act?”_ Zidane sputters. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I meant what I said-“

“Don’t be ridiculous, Zidane.” Kuja grunts, trying to push Zidane off him even if his arm hurts. “I’m awful. I’m evil. I’m useless. You know it, and I know it. There is _no_ reason anyone would want me around unless they _want_ something. _You_ want something from me. I just haven’t figured out _what_.”

“You can’t _really_ believe that!” Zidane sounds so flabbergasted, he doesn’t even seem to notice Kuja’s frustratingly weak attempts at trying to put distance between them. “You’re not useless, Kuja, you’re not- you _can_ be good, I know it, I’ve _seen_ it.“

Kuja sighs.

“Stop. Just stop this, Zidane. I don’t want your kindness. Not like this.” He murmurs, squirming away from his brother’s grasp. Zidane finally seems to get it too, quickly letting go of Kuja like he’s _toxic_ \- which, in all honesty, he might as well be, personality-wise at least.

He allows himself to fall backwards onto his pillow, ignoring Zidane’s crestfallen look. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t. It’s always been this way. Why would it change now?

“Just leave me alone.” He says and he hates, he _hates_ the way his voice cracks. Like he expected something different. Like he’d hoped for more.

He’s such a _fool_ for even allowing himself to believe it for even a moment when really, he should know better. He _knows_ better.

There’s a moment of silence as Kuja waits for Zidane’s reaction, the wounds on his body seeming to ache more intensely the longer Zidane just stands there, in the corner of his eye. He doesn’t look at his face anymore, doesn’t want to see how his brother reacts to being seen through like that.

Finally, Zidane speaks up.

“I really do mean it when I say I wanna help you be better, Kuja.” His brother sounds… disappointed? Sad, maybe? “I bet it’s a lot to take in, huh? I just… when it comes to that kinda stuff, I’m no liar, Kuja. I promise.”

Kuja doesn’t reply.

Zidane sighs.

“I’ll… I’ll just leave you be for now. You need the rest.” Zidane says, though a little (forced?) cheer returns to his voice when he speaks up next. “I’ll come by with soup later, though! I dunno what you like, but I promise it’ll be good.”

Kuja doesn’t reply still, and he hears Zidane shuffle in place (uncomfortably?), before his footsteps echo through the room as he makes his way (presumably) to the door.

There’s a pause.

“Well… see ya, Kuja. Hope you have a good rest.”

The door creaks before his brother lets it fall shut, and the resulting slam has a certain _finality_ to it, almost like an echo, before everything goes quiet.

The silence is almost _oppressive_.

He doesn’t know what to do now; not that there is much he _can_ do, with his battered, broken body, his festering wounds that only got healed marginally earlier. He could think about what to do next, he supposes, but that in itself sounds so, so incredibly tiring when his head is already hurting, is already throbbing with both injury and the spiraling despair that he should be dead but _isn’t_.

His chest and throat feel tight. It’s hurts to breathe.

There’s a sting in his eyes, and he realizes he’s about to cry.

Furiously, he blinks until he can’t feel the tears anymore. He’s not going to cry. He’s _not_. It wouldn’t do him any good to do so now.

He doesn’t deserve to cry.

All he deserves is the pain of his wounds and the death that he shouldn’t have been allowed to avoid. Zidane shouldn’t have bothered saving him. The Iifa Tree should have been his tomb.

His body aches and hurts. His brain aches and hurts.

His emotions make him ache and hurt.

_Everything_ hurts.

There’s the small hope inside of him that Zidane isn’t lying. That he really, truly wants to help Kuja for selfless reasons. A small part that, no matter how hard he tries, Kuja can’t smash.

It’s ridiculous. It’s pointless. It’s tiring. Zidane is a good person, yes, but not even _he_ can be that good.

Kuja is the bad guy. Zidane is the good guy. The bad guy dies, and the good guy gets to live happily ever after with his friends.

He’s evil. He’s despicable. He’s rotten right down to his ugly, corrupted core.

He’s not good.

He’s not good.

He’s _not_ good.

He’s _worthless_.

The truth hurts, but it’ll never hurt as much as false hope.

Kuja continues telling himself as much as the world around him slowly fades back to black.

And then

he doesn’t

feel anything

anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> If this felt incomplete, that's because technically it is, I suppose. This used to be part of a longer fic that I have since scrapped, but may revive in a more condensed, flashback style format. We'll see. Either way, I edited this part down until it could be posted as a standalone, and I think I did pretty well in that regard.
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> Twitter: @Foxyinferno321
> 
> Leave a Kudos and a Comment <3


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